Where do I begin?
Do I tell you that this time, I did not survive?
Do I tell you that my youngest brother lost his leg?
That my two eldest brothers lie in hospital beds with severe injuries, while medics fight to keep them alive?
That my sister lost her husband?
During this ongoing Israeli genocide, I survived three massive airstrikes with my family. But this time, I cannot say I truly survived. Everything was shattered in seconds.
Can you name a place in this world where families are bombed as they sleep?
Where mothers and children wake up soaked in the blood of their fathers?
There is such a place—it’s called Gaza.
It’s where we sought shelter in a market mall after losing our home—only to have our souls ripped from our bodies.
May 15 marks more than the anniversary of the Nakba, the Palestinian catastrophe. For my family, it marks the darkest night of our lives.
At 2 a.m.—a time when Israel often strikes Gaza, believing that night hides their crimes—an Israeli Apache helicopter bombed the mall where we slept. But no, their crimes will never be hidden. They are engraved in our memories.
To those who have never faced war: the Israeli army uses every weapon imaginable to erase us.
In Gaza, if you’re hit by an Apache helicopter, there’s still a chance you might survive.
But if an F-16 carpet bombs your location, survival becomes impossible.
Months ago, Israel dropped two massive F-16 bombs on us. Miraculously, we survived—with wounds.
But on May 15, they returned with an Apache strike.
This time, we didn’t all survive.
My brother-in-law was killed.
My three brothers were wounded—badly.
The place we had taken refuge in was a two-floor structure made of gypsum and iron. The women and children stayed on the ground floor. The men were just five meters above us.
In an instant, darkness and dust swallowed everything.
I grabbed the children, numb and in shock, but quickly moved to get them to safety.
Though we downstairs weren’t critically injured, we were drenched in blood. The floor became a lake of red.
Then I looked up.
Part of my sister’s husband had melted into the iron. The rest of him hung mid-air.
Then came a cry—a faint moan: “Ah… Ah…”
It was my brother Sulaiman. His leg lay beside him, severed.
How could such a kind, brilliant, hardworking young man—full of ambition and life—lose his leg like this?
Sulaiman studies Multimedia at the Islamic University of Gaza. Despite the genocide and displacement, he never stopped pursuing his dream. Now, he lies in the ICU at Nasser Medical Complex, in a coma. He is fighting for his life. Doctors say he needs a miracle to survive.
What makes his condition even more tragic is that it could have been stabilized—if not for the catastrophic state of the hospital.
The Israeli siege has devastated Gaza’s medical system. After airstrikes hit the drug storage facility, doctors at Nasser are overwhelmed and under-resourced. They must choose who to save. And the critically wounded, like Sulaiman, cannot afford to wait.
My mother, eyes swollen with tears, whispered:
“If only the Iraqi doctor were here. He saved a girl who lost her arm in a strike. He asked the family to bring the arm, and he restored it.”
But she doesn’t know—Israel blocked him from returning to Gaza.
My other brothers, Mohammad and Mahmoud, also suffered injuries.
Their legs were severely wounded, but they avoided amputation.
It’s as if Israel aims for Gazans’ legs—creating the world’s largest community of amputees.
The last one brought to the hospital was my brother-in-law. That’s when we heard the news.
He was gone.
Killed.
My sister was in her ninth month of pregnancy.
After saying goodbye to her husband, she gave birth to their daughter—Yaqeen.
She is one of thousands of babies born into this war without a father.
What injustice did she inherit from the moment she took her first breath?
Then there are Yazan, 3, and Taqwa, 2.
They ask about their father every minute.
How do I explain this to them?
I tried to say, “Your father has gone to heaven.”
But their next question shattered me:
“When will he come back from heaven?”
I couldn’t take another step. I couldn’t hold back the tears.
How do I tell them that the Israeli army killed their father—and he will never return?
After this massacre, Israel issued more evacuation orders in Khan Younis, urging civilians to flee to Mawasi—the so-called “safe zone.”
But Israel lies.
Airstrikes rain down endlessly—from land, air, and sea.
We have been displaced ten times. Ten.
Each time, stripped of any hope to live.
Each day, we wake up to search for food and water—just to stay alive.
The worst place I have ever known is Mawasi.
Hundreds of thousands are crammed into endless rows of tents.
The suffering is unspeakable.
Some pain is too cruel to describe.
A mother in the tent beside us—separated only by a piece of fabric—calls out to her son: “Sulaiman!”
Each time, I flinch.
Each time, I turn, hoping to see my brother standing there.
But he’s not.
He is in a hospital bed, unconscious.
And I am broken.
I used to be surrounded by my three brothers.
Now, they are scattered across different hospitals—wounded, barely clinging to life.
